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blackshoes

I walk listening to the history of those constantly silenced by the oppressors noose.

The plantations smell of burning rubber, fresh cotton, and sweet cane.

I perspire as my senses fill with the blood traded through the middle passage
Masta,
I’m still shackled,
                        still burning,
                          skin cracking from the bull whip.
Me? I remember who I was until they beat it out of me.
My feet were sore as I laid down
– bleeding –
Shedding the history of my Black shoes
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